A Way with Words
by Vengeance on a Dark Horse
Summary: In the years leading up to the Batman Begins, one doctor of psychology learns what it means to sacrifice everything for the greater good of science - whether that sacrifice be his reputation, his family, or his sanity. A Scarecrow origin story. (Slow-moving, dialogue-driven, strictly third person observational writing style)
1. Interviews

A Way with Words

Chapter One:

Interviews

"I don't know what you want from me. I didn't do anything. Can I go back to my cell now?" the words sprung out in rapid fire, breaking the silent aura of the room. Yet as quickly as they came, they left, and there was no response. Instead, the doctor pored over his notes, flicking through the papers on his clipboard and glancing up with a kind smile every now and then.

"Can I go back?" but the words were ignored. It seemed near five minutes passed with little more than the crinkling of paper.

Then the doctor cleared his throat.

Jonathan Crane was on the edge of his chair with his elbows on his knees. His feet dragged against the grey carpet, rolling away from the desk in the corner so that he was seated nearly in the center of the little windowless room. A single fluorescent bulb buzzed over the metal door behind him and it cast his shadow in a long streak.

With another scooch, Jonathan was squarely in front of the boy – though to be fair, the boy was more an adolescent, very nearly a young man, with yellow hairs budding between his chapped lips and hooked nose. Yet as the youth cringed in his seat, legs and arms crossed, head hung low, he seemed so much like a little boy again, dragged into the principal's office.

The weight of two bright eyes watching him burned the ends of the boy's ears. Forgetting himself, he looked up for the most fleeting of moments. At that, Jonathan pounced.

The doctor was hardly a hand's length away now. He bobbed his head down, tilting it like a curious dog, as he hunted for the least bit of eye contact. Then, with the slightest adjustment of his shoe across the floor, his pant-leg grazed ever so briefly against the boy's shin.

The boy stared up immediately, and Jonathan broke out into a smile.

"There he is!" Jonathan leaned back and rolled away to give the boy some room to breathe.

With a flick of his thumbs, the boy straightened his back.

"I—" he pronounced firmly but then came to a halt, and not another word could be uttered. He melted back into himself and stared down at his fidgeting thumbs.

"I, I don't—" he stuttered.

The primly dressed doctor rolled back over to his desk in the corner, brushing off the invisible lint on his dark burgundy suit. He stooped over the notepad on his clipboard and jotted down indiscriminate notes.

"I understand," the doctor said flatly. In his peripheral, he caught notice of the boy frowning a little. He slapped his pen down on the desk and rolled back out into the center of the room.

"We all do things we regret every day. We tell ourselves, 'I should have held that door open…I shouldn't have said it like that…I should have thanked her…'" Jonathan's piercing blue eyes had captivated his subject and his voice grew softer and softer as he spoke, "You think that just happens with the little things?"

There was a long pause, and the boy squirmed, shifting his eyes until he looked back at the doctor who smiled at him.

"Of course not…" Jonathan whispered, "_Every _good person has his regrets."

He brandished his finger in the air at that and let it linger until it caught the boy's attention.

"And do you know why?" Jonathan continued, "Because you're a good person. Because you know when you do something wrong. Because you know that you can look me in the eye and tell me as much. Those things, those stupid little things, they will not define who you are— they will help you become who you were always meant to be."

He laid his hands on the arms of his chair and gave a wide smile.

"It's not as though you are out there every night when we're not looking, breaking everything you come across. It was just a one-time thing, an outburst, but we all need to blow off some steam sometime. Right?"

The boy sighed and made a curt, solitary nod, "It was an accident."

"Okay," Jonathan nodded back, "Let's see how we can fix this then, shall we?"

Jonathan pushed himself up from his chair, taking his notes in one arm. His long shadow loomed wider, so that the boy was left sitting in darkness. The doctor stepped directly in front of the fluorescent, and the contrast made his tall frame look like little more than a silhouette. As he pulled open the door, a white beam highlighted half his face, causing the briefest of twinkles on his Cheshire cat grin.

The door closed behind the doctor, erasing with it all traces of the looming shadow. The boy breathed a little easier. Yet as the silence passed his fingers, he began to trace the edges of his seat cushion, not quite sure how to pass the time.

His eyes were absorbed with the sight of his own fidgeting when he heard the door creak open. Gentle shuffling entered the room and a high pitched squeal of metal wheels. He cast up a curious glance, and his mouth contorted when he saw the gurney awaiting him.

"Okay, Lee," a male nurse forced a toothless smile approaching the boy's chair as the other nurse prepared the straps on the gurney, "We have some medicine we'd like you to take."

—

"Dr. Crane?"

The doctor stood stiffly against the hallway wall, watching as the nurses strapped the patient to the gurney.

"Dr. Crane?"

The doctor started when a hand touched lightly on his shoulder. He turned to see his supervisor, Dr. Abigail Wynns, standing beside him with a polite half-smile on her face.

"I appreciate your assistance in this," she began in monotone, looking at Dr. Crane, whose steady eye contact and blank features prompted her to gaze downward. As the nurses rolled the patient away, gagged and strapped on all his limbs, Dr. Crane could see the boy thrashing his head around in search for something. With a slight and curious tilt of his head, Dr. Crane stepped around his supervisor to get a clearer view. There he saw the boy and the boy saw him.

Whatever dark and desperate flash flittered in the boy's eyes, Dr. Crane gave no reaction but turned back toward Dr. Wynns.

"It's no trouble at all," Dr. Crane interrupted his supervisor's words, "I am glad that I could help straighten things out. This is all my doing anyways."

"What do you mean?" Dr. Wynns arched a brow.

Sucking in a breath, Dr. Crane said, "I had made so much progress with him, and now this! It's like reinventing the wheel."

Dr. Wynns nodded with a sigh, "I know what you mean, but you can't blame yourself. Progress comes slowly, if at all in this quarter. We should be happy that he didn't hurt himself in the process."

"It's a shame, though," Dr. Crane's shoulders sagged a bit, "that the rest of the patients have to suffer because of this."

"Going a couple of days without television or radio never killed anyone!" Dr. Wynns waved a dismissive hand, "We all need to unplug sometime, even here! Besides, we were looking to buy some new equipment for the other community rooms anyways – what's the harm in adding one more?"

Dr. Crane reached out and gave his colleague a warm squeeze on her upper arm, "You're right. Thank you. I'll try to be more mindful in supervising Lee in the future. But until we get back where we were, I feel an increased regimen might maintain his emotional stability."

"Well, write up your suggestions and I can get you my review tomorrow or Thursday, okay?"

Dr. Crane nodded, leaving with a wave and a smile. As he turned his back to the doctor, he rolled his eyes before coming to a wide doorway, which opened up to an intersection of hallways. It was abuzz with the clicking of nurses' heels, the maneuvering of fast-paced gurneys, and the chatter of nurses, doctors, and excited patients.

With a sudden beep at his hip, Dr. Crane looked down and frowned. He turned left and strode swiftly down the hall, weaving in and out of the traffic with ease as he flipped through a variety of pink papers on his clipboard.

He came to a corner and as soon as he turned, a door threw open, hitting his arm and knocking his clipboard onto the floor. With a roll of his eyes, he saw the heedless culprits walk away oblivious, but with little protest, he knelt down to pick up the papers. Foot traffic stepped over him as he tried to collect his notes, and he felt a good deal like he was trapped on the edge of the highway with his dog in the middle of the street.

He thrust his arm out impatiently and snatched up a paper.

"_Excuse _me," he hissed as a man's foot nearly stepped on his hand, but the man had already walked away.

"I'll help you with that," said a woman, and he could see her figure begin to stoop down in front of him.

The beeper buzzed at his hip again. He shook his head, not sure if it was at the beeper or at the unwanted help.

With an impatient cough, he started to speak, "That won't be nece—"

As he looked up, he gave a curious tilt of his head, "Miss Dawes? What brings you here?"

He stood up, straightening his pile of papers onto his clipboard.

"I needed to speak with you," Rachel Dawes smiled back, handing Jonathan some of the crinkled pink notes. Jonathan took it without a glance and added it to the pile, smoothing it out with the open palm of his hand.

"I left a message," Rachel frowned a little at the doctor's antics and placed a hand on the hip of her pencil skirt, "It's about the trial."

For a few seconds, she waited, waited, ducking around each gurney and pedestrian that sped past. Yet he had not stopped – he was still smoothing out that same piece of paper, with that same outstretched swoop of his palm.

"Dr. Crane?" she said with a little force, and Jonathan's whole body almost imperceptibly jerked, with a twitch at the corner of his lips. His hands pulled away from the paper, and he looked up at Rachel expectantly.

"What about the trial?" With a raise of his brow, Dr. Crane gestured her onward as he began to walk down the hall, "Let's take this to my office."

Any lingering doubt flashed out of Rachel's hard gaze as she followed him.

They arrived at a bland office with little hint of personality, except for the requisite books lining the far end of the wall and a single family portrait on the edge of the immaculately organized desk. Dr. Crane motioned an invitation to a chair, waiting for Rachel to walk past him. After she entered, he closed the door behind him with an audible sigh of relief. The bustle of the outside hallways had all but disappeared.

Before he could take notice of Rachel's words, he went straight for a window and drew open the blinds. Staring at the sunny sky for a moment, he breathed in deep with his eyes closed.

His beeper buzzed at his hip again.

"I'm sorry, Miss Dawes, but before I can let you get too far into this," he said, gravitating toward the plush chair behind his oak desk, "I should say that I have to leave pretty soon."

He pulled up his pager and waved it around before throwing onto his desk and sitting down.

"I promised my wife we'd meet for lunch today," he said, "If you want this to be a longer conversation, I can put you in sometime today – I'm free around three, three thirty."

Rachel nodded, her eyes instinctively drawn to the red framed photograph at the front of the desk. She glanced at Dr. Crane for approval, and he waved her his permission. Picking it up, she saw the picture of a young woman with jet black curls and wide dark eyes holding a little girl, no more than two, with curls just as black and eyes just as wide.

"Is it just them?" Rachel could not help but grin ear to ear at the girls, and she could see that it made Jonathan do the same.

He nodded, "For now. We're expecting a boy in October."

"Congratulations!" she put the portrait down. Dr. Crane swallowed hard but smiled nonetheless, his attention drifting across the lines of ivory diplomas hung neatly across the opposite wall. Rachel began to squirm in her chair and then leaning forward, she broke the silence.

"Well, I shouldn't intrude on your date then," she said, beginning to stand up, "I will see you at three thirty, that works fine for me. I'm sorry I couldn't get a hold of you beforehand."

Dr. Crane shrugged, "It's no bother. It was nice to see you."

Rachel nodded back and began to leave, "Oh and Jonathan?"

She lingered in the threshold, holding the door as she looked over her shoulder, "Enjoy your lunch! _Really. _You look a little wound up. It'll help."

Dr. Crane forced out a chuckle.

"I'm serious!" Rachel insisted, "I always get that way before trials, but you'll kill on Thursday. Right?"

An odd look flashed across his features at that, but then he smiled, "Right."

—

Jonathan drove up to the brown-brick building with a lurid yellow sign buzzing over the roof—_Luciano's_. He entered the restaurant with his fingers unconsciously trying to button his suit jacket closed, although it was already buttoned. A waitress led him down the velvet red carpeting, and he watched his shoes step onward before he came to a sudden halt.

He took a seat and looked straight at the woman across from him.

"So, Dr. Crane," said the woman, "This might sound like a standard question, but I think it speaks for itself that this isn't everyone's cup of tea. So tell me, why would you like to work at Arkham Asylum?"

"Please," said the doctor, "Call me Jonathan."


	2. Sickness

A/N: _I know how much origin stories like to start out with someone sweet and innocent who becomes distorted with tribulation. I'm trying something new here and for the first little while, our hero may come across as somewhat brusque—as real-life people tend to be when feeling trapped in a frustrated, powerless position in life. With that said…_

Chapter Two:

Sickness

As soon as they got home, he went straight for the bathroom. He closed it, locked it, and turned on the faucet as high as it could go. Hunching over the bathroom countertop, he splashed the water in his face once, then twice. Steam began to billow up from the sink and stick to the mirror – he could see little veins between the clouds where the reflection could still be seen.

For a moment, he did nothing but stare deeply into the cracks between the fog until his eyes adjusted to see the vague outline of a man in the mirror, but who it was he could not quite tell. A salty perspiration trickled all down his face, with sweat leaking down his upper lip into his mouth. He gagged a little and with a stumble, hit his knee on the counter as he made his way over to the toilet.

"Honey?" There was a knock on the door.

He spit the last bit of bile into the toilet bowl and headed toward the door when he saw his reflection.

"Shit," he muttered, lifting up his tie – stained with a pink-orange vomit.

"Honey, are you okay?"

The water was scalding, but he reached his hand in any way and splashed away what he could of the stain.

The knocking continued, and he felt his teeth grind. He turned off the sink and opened the door.

"Hon—" Faye started but as soon as the door fully opened, her eyes widened, "Jesus! Jon! Your nose!"

Jonathan raised a brow as his wife practically shoved him back into the bathroom. She snatched up some toilet paper and immediately pressed at his nose. He swatted her hand away and took the paper for himself, lowering it for a moment to see vivid claret soaking the white sheets. Glancing back at the mirror, he saw the blood dripping and he saw the cloud of steam was gone.

And so was his tie. He wore only a thin white button down, the lower half of which was drenched with water, sticking to his stomach so that he could see a hue of his pink skin beneath. Faye glanced at his shirt with a roll of her eyes and turned the bathroom light off before walking out. With glazed eyes, Jonathan followed her into the kitchen, sitting on a barstool beside the kitchen island.

As his wife was hidden behind the silvery shield of the refrigerator door, his eyes ran around the wide condominium floor; they were bloodshot and blinked hardly at all.

There was a loud clatter when Faye slammed the fridge closed, and Jonathan jumped in place.

"_Tsk! _God damn it!" Faye marched straight up to him, her eyes fixated on his chest, "I just got you this shirt!"

He frowned, looking down to see that the blood from his nose had dribbled onto his shirt. His lip twitched in an apologetic smirk as Faye unbuttoned his shirt.

"Here, let me wash it," she said, still not glancing up at him, pulling the sleeves off his arms so that he was left sitting with nothing but an undershirt. With her free hand, she forced his own hand up to his nose.

"I gave you the Kleenex for a reason," she said, "Use it."

Jonathan kept the tissues on his nose, and his eyes tracked after his wife as she walked over to the kitchen sink and began scrubbing out the blood stain with the familiarity only a woman could know.

With a weary slouch over the kitchen island countertop, Jonathan rested his chin on his hand.

"I got the job," he said without much enthusiasm, and Faye gave no response.

"I got the job," he said a little louder.

Without glancing back from the sink, Faye shouted back, "What job?"

"At Arkham Asylum. That opening they had? I got it. I'll be starting in a couple months."

There was a silent pause, followed by a mumble.

"Good for you," said Faye.

"I think I'll like it better there…" Jonathan narrowed his eyes at his wife, who continued washing his shirt.

"Uh-huh."

"I like the supervisor better."

"…Yeah."

"It's yet another overly sentimental woman, though. No surprise there."

"Good."

Heaving in a deep but noiseless breath, Jonathan's eyes had narrowed down into slits when he blurted out, "I want a divorce."

"Great," Faye muttered but then suddenly stiffened when she registered what was said. She turned around slowly, peering straight at him.

"What did you just say?"

Jonathan rubbed the back of his head, "I said that dinner was quite the tour de force. I think I'll give your parents a call and thank them."

Faye abruptly shut off the sink, storming across the kitchen. She threw the wet shirt into Jonathan's face, which fell off onto the floor.

"Here's your fucking shirt," she spat and sped off into the master bedroom, slamming the door behind her as she shouted, "_Ass hole!_"

Jonathan chuckled at first but then shook his head and threw his tissue onto the countertop with a sigh. He walked over to the bedroom door and knocked.

"Faye…Faye?" he spoke through the door, "I was joking!"

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He picked it up and cursed when he read the message. Walking away from the door, he paced across the living room adjunct to the kitchen. He mouthed his words, barely muttering, as he typed his response.

"Trial tomorrow. Need to study," he mumbled, "Ask Walter. His shift."

He pressed send and whispered a hoarse curse at the near immediate reply. Opening the message, he gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

"He's always on fucking leave!" he clicked a few buttons and brought the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" he spoke to the phone, "I got the message. Why is Walter on leave again? He just got back a week ago."

He listened to the voice on the other end, nodding.

"Look, I don't have time for this. I have to go over my statement tonight, and it's late enough as it is," Jonathan dragged his fingers through his hair as he paced back and forth. He stopped in his track and gave a sigh.

"Alright, alright!" he snapped, "I'll be there in half an hour, maybe forty-five." His brows scrunched together as he listened.

"Because I just got back from dinner! Just do what you can to stabilize him for now—yes! The medicine! Alright? I'll get there when I get there!" he squeezed the off button and buried the phone in his pocket with a petulant snarl of his lips.

Glancing back at the entry, he could see nothing had moved. He came back over to the master bedroom and knocked on his door, leaning his ear toward the wood a little. He heard a faint whispering.

"Faye?" his eyes squinted, as he stood trying to listen to the words, "Can you open the door? I've been called on for the graveyard shift. I need to get dressed."

The whispering grew louder, though still incoherent, when his shoulders suddenly tensed. The hairs on the back of his neck rose up as he gave a sidelong glance to his left and saw the bathroom door open a little wider than before. It seemed oddly pitch black in there, even though a faint beam of light from the hallway brought a slight glow to the mirror inside.

Without noticing, he took one step toward the bathroom. Then, out of nowhere, he stepped back. He swirled around and banged at first softly, then wildly against the wood with both hands.

The door opened almost instantly to reveal his wife's scowl.

"What is _wrong _with you?" Faye gaped at him as he began to rush past her into the room. She took hold of his sleeve, which he wrenched away, yanking his wife with him. As she instinctively brought a foot forward, her step met on a collection of shoes at the end of the bed and she tripped forward with a thump.

Jonathan had not looked back yet, reaching the other end of the bedroom and opening a drawer to the dresser.

"What is _wrong _with me? What is wrong with _you_?" he ranted in a strained whisper, "Locking the door like a fucking twelve-year-old girl. Shit! I have work to do!"

He pulled out a button-down, beginning to shimmy his arms into the sleeves as he turned around. He froze in place, his eyes widening when he saw Faye sprawled across the floor, slowly rising onto her knees with one hand cupping her round stomach.

He paced directly to her and began to crouch with his hands outstretched.

"Are you okay?" he said.

"Don't!" Faye jolted away, pushing up from the bed to a stand. She held out a hand to her husband's chest, keeping him at a distance.

"Is the baby—" he started and stopped when his concerned look was met with a poisonous glare. Faye sat down steadily onto the end of the bed, leaning forward with deep breaths. Jonathan watched on for a moment and then let his fingers blindly make their way up his shirt, fastening all the buttons.

"_Look_. Jon," Faye said with closed eyes as she practiced her breathing exercises, "I don't know what _phase _you're going through. But it needs to stop."

She could hear him sigh as he wandered over to the open closet, pulling out a suit jacket.

"The way you behaved tonight—" she stopped herself and opened her eyes to see Jonathan dressed back again for work, "I mean, my parents came _all_ the way down here for that? Really?"

They watched each other with even stares, when Jonathan reached his hands out in defeat and shrugged.

"I—"

"You're stressed," Faye butt in, nodding, "I get it. But we're all stressed."

With yet another sigh, Jonathan pulled out his phone, although it had not buzzed, and strayed over toward the door.

"Well, I have to go," he mumbled, eyes on the phone, "One of the crazies is at it again."

Just as he began to leave the room, Faye tightened her lips.

"Jesus," she hissed, "if you hate all your patients so much, why don't you just go back to teaching?"

Grasping the frame of the door with both hands, Jonathan felt his knuckles go white at his wife's words. Then he noticed – the bathroom door was fully closed.

He turned around so he could not see it, "GU gets about as much funding as the public transport these days. My research is better off in a live setting, anyhow."

"There's always counseling," Faye offered with a hopeful smile.

Jonathan sank his shoulders down with a soft shake of his head, "I'm not working for your father again, Faye."

"Certainly not after _tonight_," Faye muttered, casting her eyes down at her hands, which were resting atop her swollen belly and picking at her hangnails mercilessly.

Jonathan saw that little twitch of hers and frowned at himself. He approached the bed, kneeling down onto the carpet. With a tilt of his head, he met her eyes and smiled.

"Hey—I'll call them and apologize," he said through bright white teeth, "Alright?"

He could see his wife's eyes shimmering with salt and water, but she pawed it away before anything came of it.

"And I'll buy a new fucking shirt," his grin grew wide and devilish, "Okay?"

Faye sniffled with a weak laugh, pulling a tissue out of her pocket and daubing at her eyes before she reached out and daubed at Jonathan's nose, as well.

"It went away," she said, "the bloody nose."

Jonathan nodded, taking her chin in his hand before he chastely pecked her on the lips. He lay his head on her stomach for a moment and let her hands run through his deep flowing hair. Her stroke led down to his cheek, and she realized how clammy his skin was. Taking a closer look in the dimly lit room, she could see how pale he was, too, now. She immediately glanced over through the doorway to the bathroom across the hall, where he had disappeared to for almost half an hour when they just got back.

"Are you sick?" she asked.

Her eyes drifted over to her husband, and she bit her lip as he looked up at her, pushing himself up from his knees.

"I'm fine," he raised his voice a little, "I have to go to work."

She gave a rueful nod.

—

"I feel sick! I feel sick! I feel sick! I feel…" the hook-nosed boy was strapped in a straitjacket on a gurney, lifted vertically in the center of a padded white room. A man in a dark blue nurse's uniform stood, arms crossed, in a weary slouch as he stared through the one-way glass into the room, the button on a speaker glowing red.

"Let me guess…" the man mumbled to himself, "Sick?"

The door to the observation room burst open and Dr. Crane hurried inside, dressed all in a suit with a suitcase in one hand.

"Well?"

"Well, I medicated him like you said," the nurse said, "and now he feels sick apparently."

Dr. Crane raised a suspicious brow, gazing through the glass.

"I feel sick! I feel sick!" the boy screamed bloody murder, moving his lips afterwards voicelessly. He tried to rock back and forth to no avail, only setting his head in a turkey-like bobble.

"Did you give him the _exact _dosage?" Dr. Crane approached the glass leering at the nurse, who tensed at that.

"I—" but the nurse stopped himself and walked over to a table in the back, pulling up a case and opening it.

Presenting a syringe, the nurse proffered it in front of Dr. Crane, whose gaze was engrossed in the visage of the trembling boy.

"Dr. Crane," the nurse said forcefully, attracting the doctor's attention, "This is what I gave him, this is what I always give him."

Dr. Crane snatched the syringe and looked it over, tracing his fingers along the edges with a shake of the head.

"I feel sick! Sick! Sick!" the scream reverberated through both the speaker and the glass.

"No," he said, "that's not enough. He's recovering from a major episode of psychosis, a violent outburst, that led to the massive destruction of property. Something this small won't do. We need more."

The nurse narrowed his eyes.

"What?" Dr. Crane frowned at the accusatory look.

"I thought Dr. Wynns said no," said the nurse, "to an increased regimen."

Dr. Crane sighed, with a tired sag of his head, "I didn't mean—I'm just saying that without an increased regimen very little can be done at the moment. I can go through the motions and that should quiet him down for a bit, to let the other patients sleep, but really now…"

Dr. Crane wandered back over to the glass, letting his eyes rest on the patient, "…without an increased regimen, he's not going to make any progress. If this keeps up, I'll have to recommend him to better care."

The nurse frowned in disbelief, "What do you—you don't mean Arkham?"

"There isn't any other mental hospital that has the funding, talent, and equipment available to treat a man in this state. We haven't a choice in the matter."

"You—we've had a lot of transfers to Arkham lately," the nurse said in a low voice, "We just dispatched a load last week."

At that, Dr. Crane let out a raucous snort of a laugh before casting a barbing look at his colleague.

"A load?" said Dr. Crane, "What, are you delivering toasters or something?"

"I—"

"And really, what difference does it make? It's a good thing that they're getting the help they need," Dr. Crane gave a thin glance at the room around him, "This place is more than wanting."

"Arkham is for the criminally insane. They don't have interaction there or community events."

Dr. Crane pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, unfazed, "They have their doctors."

"If all they needed was a doctor, then they'd all be cured by now," the nurse gave a defiant gaze into the doctor's eyes. The doctor sneered and smiled at the same time it seemed, and with a rub at his lightly bristled chin, he hissed out his next words.

"Is that all?" he said.

"What?"

There was a long pause as the doctor gave a dark look.

"Were you needing anything else then?"

The nurse shook his head.

"Great," said the doctor, his glower not wavering an inch. The nurse averted his eyes and mumbled.

"Pardon?" the doctor perked his ear with a sarcastic grin.

"See you tomorrow," the nurse said harshly and left.

Dr. Crane waited until the door to the observational room came to a complete close. He paced up to it and locked it. Turning around, his eyes gazed up and left.

"Dr. Wynns said no! Dr. Wynns said no!" Jonathan shrieked in a mocking look of concern, "That passive aggressive bitch. Can't fucking say no to my face."

He paced up to the glass, the corner of his mouth twitching before his focus returned to the image before him. He saw the boy inside and his hand instinctively reached out and switched off the glowing button of the speaker. Fingers lunging into a pocket, he pulled out a ring of keys and he adeptly picked out one long brassy item. When he came to the side door, he unlocked it and hovered for a moment. The door slowly opened on its own, rolling out a path into the blinding white room.

Jonathan grinned widely.

"Doctor?" the boy suddenly whispered, relief washing over his eyes.

"You feeling sick?" Jonathan smiled, coming up to the gurney with his suitcase in hand. He ignored the boy's response and instead laid his case onto a table to open it more steadily. He took out another syringe, filled with a cloudy liquid.

"Here we are!" he tapped at the boy's skin, finding a vein, "This should do the trick."

And he stuck the needle into the boy's arm.

"What are you doing?"

Jonathan whirled around – it was the nurse.

"I'm sedating him," the doctor said, pulling out the needle, seamlessly completing the injection. The boy quickly went limp, his head dropping in instant confirmation of the doctor's words.

"The door was locked."

"Was it?" Jonathan raised a brow.

"I thought you were going to take him through some exercises…"

Jonathan sighed, "He was clearly in hysterics _and _exhausted from being up so late. It was the best response."

"I could have done that."

Jonathan crossed his arms, nodding vigorously, "Yes, yes, you could have. I know you're new here but believe me, no one will reprimand you for taking some initiative now and then, especially over something so universal as night terrors. So unless I'm needed further, I think the best thing to do would be to get him back into his room and let him rest."

By the time they had finished, Jonathan saw that his watch read _12:48 P.M._ He sighed and walked back through the black halls toward his office, where he stayed for the remainder of the night.


	3. Trial

_A/N: Just to clarify, at this point in the story we are chronologically about a year, a year and a half before the Zsazs trial. But yes, that will eventually play a factor!_

Chapter Three:

Trial

Jonathan Crane arched his head over the wiry microphone so that his lips nearly touched the cushioning, projecting the sound of his low breaths throughout the courtroom. His eyes steadily floated over each member of the audience—a jury of middle-aged women in well-worn skirt suits and two grey-haired men.

"It is my professional diagnosis that he is sane and meets all requirements for legal competency," Jonathan said in slow enunciated syllables, "He had no medically diagnosable reasons that could have prevented him from distinguishing right from wrong."

"Thank you, Dr. Crane," said Rachel, at which Dr. Crane looked forward and gave a gentle nod. She walked back to the table for the prosecution, her heels clicking against the tiled floor, and took a seat with a subtle glance to the other end of the room. There, a row of dark pinstriped suits and greased black hair stirred—the oldest of them pushed up from the table with the help of a silver-headed cane. Yet even standing fully, the old gentleman seemed in a permanent hunch with his lower lip jutting out. With a stiffened gait, he wobbled over toward Dr. Crane, clattering like horse's hooves against cobblestone.

The gentleman leaned against the witness stand with one hand stroking over his combed back hair. Then in a deep rumble, he spoke.

"Mr. Crane—"

"_Doctor_."

"Sorry?" the gentleman turned an ear toward the doctor bunching his lips apologetically, "I'm hard of hearing."

"_Doctor _Crane."

"Yes, oh, did I not—" the gentleman slurred in a low boom, then waved his hand and moved on, "Well, you were for a brief time a medical doctor before you made psychology your primary field—"

"Yes."

"Oh…" the gentleman rubbed the bottom of his chin, "I'm sorry, it wasn't a question. Let me, could you let me finish for a moment, alright?"

Dr. Crane's eyes narrowed as he pushed his glasses up his nose, "…Alrigh_t_."

"Now, doctor, you defined earlier the medical definition of mental competency. Could you please recap that definition for the jury?"

Dr. Crane straightened his jacket with a short cough, "It is a person's ability to comprehend the legal situation, requirements, and consequences of his actions. When a person is competent he must be held accountable for his actions because—"

"Thank you, thank you for that school lesson," the lawyer tapped his fingers against the witness stand, licking at his bottom lip as his eyes wandered around the courthouse, "You were a teacher for a little while, no?"

"An adjunct professor, yes."

"At Gotham University?"

"That's right," Dr. Crane nodded.

"Anywhere else?"

"Um, not that…" Dr. Crane murmured, then moved toward the microphone, "Well, for a couple of semesters I taught at Tri-Cee Gee part-time."

"Pardon?"

"The Central Community College of Gotham."

The gentleman theatrically roused from his lean, taking up his cane in one hand and turning to face the jury.

"Yes! Yes! I read about that!" the lawyer said as he ambled toward the jury, with a glance or two toward the doctor, "You wrote a paper then, in fact! You held a little symposium for it. Do you recall?"

"I've taken part in various symposiums. You'll have to be more specific."

"Wellll," the old man drawled, now leaning against the balustrade in front of the jury, "I would hope you'd remember this one. It seems you wrote a paper about…"

With an exaggerated frown, he fumbled into his inner suit pocket to pull out a neatly folded paper. Opening it, he peaked down through a pair of reading glasses.

"You wrote about, and I am quoting your title here, 'the consideration of employing legally restricted shock and pharmacological therapies to determine the diagnoses of the mentally incompetent.' Quite the title!"

"Academic thesis titles tend to be long."

"You remember it, then?"

Dr. Crane shrugged, folding his fingers in a steeple in front of him, "Vaguely."

"Oh, that's all right! It won't be a problem because we have something that might help jog your memory," the lawyer batted his arm the air with a disarming smirk toward the doctor and began to wobble back toward the defense's table. He pulled out a leather-bound binder, opening it to a stack of documents.

"Your school at the time, Tri-Cee Gee," the old man scanned over some documents he picked up as he leaned against his table, "It seems, the school held a protest during your symposium. The school paper wrote about it—there was some dispute over your thesis paper, about the ethicality of some of your sourcing."

Dr. Crane rubbed a hand against a cheek with a slight nod.

"Do you recall?"

"Not very well, no," said the doctor, "It's been several years since I worked there."

"You worked there in—" the lawyer gave a long glance through the glasses that teetered precariously on the end of his nose, reading off his documents, "1998, correct?"

The doctor scrunched up his brow and then nodded, "I believe so, yes."

"That was when this article was written – May 23, 1998. I'll, can I?, read a little off of it right here?" the lawyer cleared his throat, "And here I quote, 'Concerns were raised by various members of the student body when reviewing Dr. Jonathan Crane's recently published thesis. Two representatives of the student body panel for ethics claimed that Dr. Crane used at least two sources derived from recent genetic experiments conducted at Princeton University. The actual thesis uses these sources as justification for a proposal of the _humane experimentation of the mentally incompetent_.' End quote."

Silence fell, burgeoning to every corner of the room, and there it stayed and settled like a bad stench in the air. It was broken by the hushed rustling of Dr. Crane's suit, amplified by the microphone. His lips were nearly kissing the microphone.

"_For _the mentally incompetent," he spoke through a sneer.

"Sorry?"

"Humane experimentation _for _the mentally incompetent. Not _of_. _Of _makes it sound like I was proposing to experiment on the patients themselves. The proposition was to experiment on willing participants. This is something that is done every day by every academic sphere."

"Ah," the old man nodded knowingly, "So it seems you do remember."

"A little."

"A little…" the lawyer echoed, raising a brow as he pulled up a second piece of paper, "I have here a second article from the Tri-Cee Gee paper on May 25, 1998, discussing the symposium itself. It says an audience member asked you how your proposed experiments could be ethically justified under the Hippocratic Oath. It says you responded by saying—well, why don't you just read it?"

The lawyer wobbled up to the witness stand and handed over the paper to Dr. Crane.

"That first highlighted passage," the lawyer pointed, "From there. It says you stated…"

Dr. Crane first scanned over the words silently, and his face visibly tensed, with his clenching and his brow slightly lowered.

"'An oath is an act of faith in one man from another…'" he read stiffly, "'and I thought by now we had realized that faith and science are better off in different symposiums.'"

"Yes…and? You said after that?"

"I said…" Dr. Crane took a deep breath as he spoke, "'Sometimes there are necessary evils that occur in the world whether we like it or not, and there's no point in not reaping the rewards of what is already there.'"

"Thank you for reading that…" the lawyer glanced over to the jury, then back to Dr. Crane, "now this article then states that an audience member shouted out, _What necessary evils_? Correct?"

"That's what the article says, yes."

"And what does it say you said in response? You can read it highlighted in pink at the bottom."

Dr. Crane scanned the paper again, shifting in his chair with an uncomfortable contortion of his lips, "'Y'know…Germany and all that.'"

A loud thump hit the floor as the lawyer pounded his cane against the floor, "Germany…and all that!"

"This is entirely taken out of context."

"Are you saying that the article is a fabrication?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you deny that you made the statements in this article?"

"What is this about?"

"Doctor, please answer the question."

Dr. Crane snorted a scoff, throwing his hands up in the air, "I know what you're trying to get at! That wasn't what I meant by it at all—"

"So you did say it?"

"My wife is half-Jewish!"

The lawyer looked up to the silent judge with a tired smile, "Your Honor…"

"Dr. Crane," the judge looked down at the doctor with a deep scowl on his wrinkled prune of a face, "please answer the question and try to refrain from any additional commentary."

Dr. Crane clenched his jaw even more, looking back at the lawyer in front of him, "Yes. Yes, I said it."

"And really, now, does a man without any faith in ethics have any real place in identifying when someone can or cannot differentiate between right and wrong?"

Rachel Dawes shot up to a stand, "Objection, Your Honor!"

"I withdraw that last statement," the lawyer said with a flap of his hand as he walked back to the defense table and slowly sat, "No further questions."

Rachel Dawes had remained standing and instantly looked to the judge, "Rebuttal, Your Honor?"

"Proceed."

Rachel rushed up to the stand, virtually chomping at the bit.

"Dr. Crane, when was the article you read from written?" said Rachel.

"May 25, 1998."

"How old were you on May 25, 1998?"

Dr. Crane thought for a moment, then said, "Twenty-eight."

"How long had you been practicing medicine in May 1998 when you were twenty-eight?"

"Umm…" Dr. Crane darted his eyes around in thought, "I think about one year."

"How old are you now?"

"Thirty-five."

"How long have you been practicing medicine now?"

"About eight years."

"How long have you been a licensed psychologist?"

"About eight years."

"How many ethical reprimands have you received over your eight years of practice?"

"None."

"How many reprimands, period, have you received?"

"None."

"How many lawsuits have you personally received for irresponsible or inaccurate treatments?"

"None."

"And do you think the man, Allen Giambino, is mentally incompetent?"

"I do not. I think he is legally sane."

"Thank you, Dr. Crane," Rachel smiled and went back to her seat as quickly as she came to the stand.

—

"Would the juror please rise and state the decision," the bailiff announced, standing at the head of the judge's dais. The courtroom was packed but all were frozen an still as the juror opened the paper and read aloud.

"For the single count of murder in the first degree, we the jury unanimously find the defendant to be guilty."

A collective gasp erupted from the defense's side of the courtroom, and the line of pinstriped suits grumbled between themselves. The guilty man cast a hateful leer at Rachel Dawes and her colleagues and briefly, ever so briefly the man looked over at Jonathan as he whispered into his lawyer's ear.

—

"You know a man's desperate when he does a character attack on an expert witness…Hell, did you listen to their expert? He practically agreed with us, everything he said was a double negative!" said a man with a flushed face who had been sitting beside Rachel Dawes in the courtroom. Now, though, he was sitting in a suit at a velvet walled restaurant, which belied that he was indeed the district attorney of Gotham City. Sitting on one side of his silk-adorned table was his assistant, Rachel, with Dr. Crane on the other.

"It's the little things in life—the little things!" Rachel said, lifting her glass of champagne in a miniature toast before took a small sip.

"Like victory!" the man rose his own glass and took a deep swig of his beer. Rachel scoffed, giving a frown so tender it was hardly there at all.

"Like _justice_, you mean!" she squeaked.

"_And _justice _and _knowing that you're right _and _knowing that the world knows it, too!" the man grew louder and louder as he spoke, and Rachel rolled her eyes. She caught notice of Jonathan across from her as he sat brooding, staring down at his lap without having touched his drink.

"Jonathan," Rachel reached a hand out and rested in on the table as she spoke, "thank you again for taking the time out to do this. Your testimony carried a lot of weight."

"That's one way to say it," the district attorney nodded vigorously, "It practically blew their whole defense out of the water!"

Jonathan did not lift his eyes from his lap, muttering under his breath, "They called me a Nazi…"

"Desperate!" the district attorney spat out.

"Degrading! Insulting!" Jonathan raised his eyes immediately, glancing between the two, "My wife is half-Jewish. I mean…"

He stalled for a moment, scratching at his chin to regain his thoughts. With a lean inward, he looked at Rachel.

"It's dismissing everything—all the research I've done in my life, _the greatest breakthroughs in my field_. All in half a second. All for what? Courtroom theatrics?"

He leaned back in his chair with a tired wag of his head, "The jury system is…"

The district attorney slammed his hand on the table and all the dishes clattered in unison.

"Guaranteed in the Constitution?" he shouted, "Amen to that!"

Rachel stifled a laugh but with a playful shake of her head, looked back to see the doctor's still serious face. She forced an apologetic smile.

"Cross-examinations can be a bit rattling at first, especially when they don't have any way to prove you wrong and play dirty instead," she explained, "And Joel Ellis? He _always _plays dirty—he's one of Falcone's go-to defenders."

"Falcone?" Jonathan widened his eyes, "_The _Falcone."

"Yes, but—" Rachel stammered, "you don't need to worry."

"We weren't really stepping on anyone's toes by putting away a wife-killer," the district attorney shrugged, "Falcone would have put Giambino in the bottom of a lake somewhere if we hadn't gotten him first. Let's just hope all mobsters tend to have such terrible love lives, at this rate, it'll be like locking up Al Capone for taxes…"


End file.
